Sometimes the most awkward moments make for the best memories. That’s what I tell myself when I want to disappear into a magical hole that opens to swallow me up when I’m embarrassed.
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Sometimes the most awkward moments make for the best memories. That’s what I tell myself when I want to disappear into a magical hole that opens to swallow me up when I’m embarrassed.
On our way home from my husband’s grandmother’s house over the holidays, we stopped at a Polish bakery/deli in Necedah. My husband is of Polish descent and loves to regale us with the stories of the things he ate as a child: Limburger cheese, potato soup with rye bread, pickled everything, sauerkraut, blood sausage and head cheese. I realize some of these things aren’t Polish, but we blame his taste on his Polish ancestors.
I like rye bread. I’ve grown to love pierogis and potato pancakes. I’ve consented to eating sauerkraut on a Reuben sandwich. But I will not get behind Shane’s love of head cheese.
According to Glorious Malone’s Fine Sausage Inc. of Milwaukee, “the name ‘headcheese’ originated centuries ago when the dish was made using various animal head meat like brains, tongues and other trimmings boiled in broth. However, modern commercial production of souse meat now utilizes more appetizing cuts of meat. Brains are typically no longer incorporated due to costs and unfavorable texture. Quality headcheese relies on tender cuts of fatty pork, chicken or beef for the best consistency and flavor. While the traditional name remains, you can rest assured authentic headcheese from skilled producers does not contain any brains, just tasty, seasoned meat gelatin.”
Imagine Shane’s delight when he found head cheese at JB Deli in Necedah. He was like a kid in a Polish candy store. He promised us we would all love it and informed us we would all try it on New Year’s Eve. I tried to look excited as I gagged internally. I will try anything once, but I was not looking forward to this. Maybe he would forget.
On the way home, we stopped at Walgreen’s and as Shane ran inside, we rolled down the windows to get some fresh air. The head cheese was pungent in the car, plus when you’re on a four-hour road trip with four teens, you need some air. Everyone was squirrely and sick of being in the car, so of course some sibling shoving started to occur.
As the tomfoolery progressed, I reminded the dear children to be careful of Shane’s bag of Polish goodies. When it became apparent they weren’t going to listen to me, I bellowed “Don’t you dare let Dad’s head cheese hit the floor.” Just as a woman got into the car next to us. I wanted to die. She gave us a look of utter disdain as I tried to melt into the seat and roll up the window. I bet that’s one thing she’s never heard anyone yell before.
Unfortunately, the head cheese made it home safely to Shane’s delight. On New Year’s Eve, as promised, he cut us each a big hunk. The chewy, gelatinous mixture slid around in my mouth and refused to go down. I finally forced myself to swallow it as Carolina, who is always dramatic, wailed in horror. Lincoln tried to be nice and said he’d like it if it weren’t for the texture. Dawson quizzed Shane on whether there were really ground up brains and tongue in it while Carolina made a big show of grabbing her throat, gagging and gasping for air, then chugging about a gallon of juice. Shane lectured us on how we should appreciate his heritage as we dutifully nodded our heads, hoping if we agreed we wouldn’t be forced to enjoy more “heritage.” I was taught to eat whatever was on my plate and be grateful for it. I’m grateful for what wasn’t on it: Head cheese.